It Doesn't Matter
by NightRaven511
Summary: Do something that interests me, okay? Tear your wrists into ribbons and drown yourself in your own blood-stained water. That way at least I can watch your self-destruction. It doesn't matter. The Black Swan has already taken over. One-shot.


A/N: I have not written fanfiction in like four years since I opened my account. Please give me reviews and I will try to write more. Because I like writing fanfiction. I just can't seem to finish any of them. Hmm. :D Or you can just leave a comment saying, 'PLEASE DON'T WRITE ANYMORE MY EYES ARE BURNING OUT.'

I also orginally thought this fandom would be larger, given the popularity of Black Swan. I guess it is now larger with _my_ contribution, lol.

Anyways, enjoy. :)

* * *

It Doesn't Matter

Hey, I'm right here. Here. Looking at you.

(_Russian pirouette, step-turn, pose turn, tiptoe, dance, sweet girl, sweet girl, give me posé turn, en pointé, give me symbol of marriage, give me death, give me sorrow, passion, sensuality, seduction! Sweet girl, sweet girl…_)

No, no, that's not me now, that's Thomas voice in your silly pretty head, don't you see? I smile as you realize you have been unconsciously thinking about him, and you freeze in your tracks. The pianist has gone, hours ago, perhaps minutes ago, it doesn't matter. Your toes are numb and your wince at the blood you see rimmed around your nails as you remove your flats, not because it feels like hot needles sticking in your pink bruised grooves but because the sight of blood really disgusts you, too dark and too red like _her_ when she stabbed herself in the face over and over with the knife you stole from her, screaming Useless!—

You shake your head and put your shoes on, struggling to burn the memory away. You fail, you know, you're not hiding it from me. I can sense and see everything about you, _on_ you, _of_ you, as if I am you and you are me. Black Swan, White Swan, we are one entity. We are two bodies suffocating to live in the same mind of a girl, black and white, good and evil, sensual and weak.

Why are you so scared to see me? I wonder. Sometimes I think you _like_ me. Sometimes I think you lust after me, even. You wouldn't mind if I come to you one day, dose you with poison and molest and practically _rape_ you, you dirty little masochist. And I like it when you unconsciously slide your gaze towards my way, fantasizing about me sliding a hand up your shirt and put my tongue in between your legs, driving you into forbidden ecstasy. I remind you of what you can achieve, the power you hold in your sick twisted head if only you were willing to face it instead of running away like some coward, afraid of her own reflection.

_Sweet girl_, I whisper, pressing my lips against the looking-glass, steaming it with the words I'm morphing around my mouth.

You flinch audibly now, stopping in mid-turn almost comically, and I leer at you through the mirror. You stare wide-eyed at me, jaw dropping stupidly. I tilt my head, bored by your slow instincts, your rabbit-like surprise. Are you really that unattractive? I frown at the mirror. Dull eyes, bleak skin, chapped purple lips, dry hair, dark shadows under your sick face. How tragic. If you would only look at me, look, properly, eye to eye for one single second, you'll see why everyone likes me better then you.

'Lily?' you say in a high-pitched voice which automatically makes my eye roll around in their sockets in repulsion. Weak fool, I think, and then you continue, 'Is that you?'

You'll see why everyone likes _Lily _better than you. I'm not a big fan of her, either, but the tragedy is, you dim in comparison to her. Nothing like her. You're unnoticeable. You're boring. You're _so_ boring, Nina! Do something that interests me, okay? Scratch and claw your smooth white skin apart. Tear your wrists into ribbons and drown yourself in your own blood-stained water. Cut yourself apart. Smash me into pieces. That way at least I can watch you self-destruct without having the trouble to poison you slowly, bit by fucking bit.

Here. I say coolly, resting my weight across the glass, sighing like a dying swan so that I feel my breasts swell under my black-feathered adorned bodice, so that you can pretend no more. You can see me, plain in sight, even in the faint light of the room.

You gasp. So predictable. 'Who are you?'

I am you. _Dumbass._

'No, this cannot be happening,' you say, stepping backwards in fear and stumbling. Catching your balance, you turn to the ceiling and shout, 'Is this some kind of a trick? It's not very funny.'

Oh, and here we go. Let the show start. Lights out, bitch.

'Hey, hey!' you scream, your voice thin and small and desperate, running towards the door, 'Hey, turn the lights back on! I'm still practicing here! I'm rehearsing, please!'

'Why don't you just face the music, or dance, shall I say, Nina darling?' I say lazily, and you turn in shock at me, your doppelgänger, your mirror mage. I straightened myself proudly and strutted across the black tiles, like a swan, too much like a swan, almost imagining myself bursting out feathers and glowing cruel amber eyes.

'_What_ are you?' You switch your question, horrified.

'It doesn't matter who or what I am,' I grin, looking at your half-closed lids; as if you're about to faint and I don't know whether from distress or exhaustion. Probably both. 'I'm the Black Swan, and you're the White Swan. Simply put.'

You swallow. I can feel the lump in your throat, and that every hair on your body is telling you to run away. Too late now, there's no one here to hear you scream, no Prince Charming or Thomas Leroy here to save their damsel in distress.

'I'm the Black Swan,' I whisper it, hiss it softly, and it still carries more weight than your shrieks you project in vain, 'And tonight I'm going to take over you. Every single part of you.'

I dance. Flying into the Black Swan scene, overtly-dramatic and passionate. This is how it's done, silly girl, without warning, without planned perfection, only intrusion, instant interruptions, heeded on hot-headed instinct. I can feel hundreds of eyes from the imaginary audience looking at me, admiring me, my beautiful moves and seductive eyes, spinning out of control, every untamed thought that you lack blow apart in me like a ticking atomic bomb, soaring from the depths of my diaphragm to the tips of my blood-rimmed webbed feet like a maelstrom. Yet no victory comes sweeter to me than _your_ despair, dear, eyes empty and pained, as if someone had stabbed your midsection deeply, the remaining spark of life extinguishing from your eyes, and I love it, dear sweet Nina, I love it so, my smirk growing wider on my face as I twirled in front of you.

'Presenting…the _Black Swan_, Nina Sayers!'

'Stop it!' you shout at my mocking words, your words that I can't be bothered to pay attention to, 'Stop it! I…don't, no—'

I fall in perfect elegance, legs in a horizontal line and back arched like a curved bow ready to aim, a ten-mark grand jété, glancing at you out of the corner of my eye, sweet girl covered in perspiration and eyeliner-stained tear tracks on your numbed features, cowering on the floor. Your fists are clenched and I laughed at the possibility of you daring to hurt me.

'Go on then,' I encourage her.

'What?' she sobs in a half-broken voice.

Feeling more masochistic, I went on, 'Kill me. Do something to prove yourself you're better than me. See that mirror over there? That's a perfect way to kill the big bad Black Swan. Come on. I promise I won't try to stop you.'

I wait. You don't move, and for a moment we stand mutely looking at each other, hate and love mixed together in such a cocktail of emotions it makes me dizzy for a while. Stumbling over to the mirror, ignoring your quiet whimpering protests, I met your moon-shaped eyes, looking at my next grand performance. With the largest force I could muster, I threw myself against the silver.

'No!' you scream, hair falling away from her neat bun and tears running down her face visibly.

Again. I brace myself for the pain and did it a second time. This time I felt something. Something beyond power.

'No! Please!' you choke hoarsely, blood running down wet and shiny down her face, 'I beg you—'

Again.

Half of your face covered in blood and the room filled with your inhumane screams, finally, I can daresay I hear some substance in your voice, the loud and clear agony bouncing and vibrating off the walls and mirrors. I closed my eyes.

Fourth time, now. Fifth. Sixth. And then again. And again. And again.

Repetitive, the attempt to perfect your moves and grace, all over and over again, but this time, it came from the heart.

Over. Over. Over.

* * *

("_The Black Swan. The antagonist of our production. Masquerading her twin sister, the White Swan, she seduces the prince and makes him fall in love with her. Knowing this, the heartbroken girl kills herself in attempt to relieve herself of the pain, and through dying, finds true freedom…_")

* * *

'I cannot believe this,' Thomas Leroy spoke in his ever present thick accent, frustration evident at the detective, who glanced irritably at his protests, 'No! You cannot possibly think I have _anything_ to do with this.'

'Where were you at 8 p.m. last night, Mr. Leroy?' the cop asked in a stern, rapping voice.

Thomas swallowed, wiping at his forehead 'Back home, uh, at my hotel room.'

'Now is there anyone who can affirm this?'

He shrugged nonchalantly, 'Lily. A girl from my ballet company. You can ask her, she's right over there.'

The detective glanced at him, giving him a suspicious look from head to toe, and then walked away to the clad in black lady, smoking a cigarette and rolling her eyes, obviously bored by the whole scene, 'Lily?'

'That's me,' she drawled, smirking at him broadly.

'Now can you tell me where were you at 8 p.m. last night, Lily?'

She rolled her eyes again and sighed, 'Fucking the director. Eton hotel. You can call them if you like. I checked out at ten.'

'I'm going to do that. Now please tell me your position at the ballet company.'

When the detective turned away to take his notes, Lily smiled to herself, adding to the effect with a flick of her hair, lowering her breath so her reverie came out as unnoticeable as the smoke escaping from her teeth, 'I mean, even though we were, like, rivals or something, I still can't believe Nina would do this to herself. She's like petite, and really,_ really_ thin and bony. She can't possibly have the strength. Someone must have killed her. Someone evil. The Black Swan to her White Swan. I wonder who did it.'

Inhaling happily on her cigarette, she said, 'Well, jeez, I guess it doesn't matter now. I'm the Swan Queen now. Funny how things go just the way I want them to.'

* * *

A/N: Honestly, the best thing about _Black _Swan, in my opinion, is how it's written and filmed so you'll never know who exactly is the insane one or whose perspective is correct, and the oh-my-god-did-she-die ending. Oh, and also the bloody parts, I wasn't expecting it to be so gory. When my friends told me she had ripped open her thumbnail or something, I went, 'Come on, that's not scary. Or gross. It's just a thumbnail.' but BOY WAS THAT MOVIE SOME SERIOUS SCARY BUSINESS.

The most awkward thing was I watched it with my mom. XD Just some advice for those who (still) haven't got the chance to see it yet: do not watch it with your parents. Or, at least, don't watch it with your parents and hide your face into their shoulder every time Natalie Portman cuts her fingernails. :/

Anyway, this is a reversal of the plot in which Lily is the crazy/bipolar/schizophrenic/whatever one in here, in case some of you are confused...which I doubt, I think I did a pretty good job explaining in the end.^^ I could have expanded it, but I like the way this turned out.

And thanks to my friend, Nicola, a brilliant ballet dancer who taught me the following terms (hope I got them all correctly!):

**Russian pirouette**: A kind of step-twirl-turn thing, I think. Probably originated from Russia and probably not.

**Posé turn**, same as 'step-turn'.

**Symbol of marriage**: a position in which the dancer puts her hands together in a heart-shaped symbol.

**En pointé**: standing tiptoe, the most common known position in ballet, which is exactly why her toes bleed. DX

**Grand jété**: Split in the air and falling down, legs horizontally stretched.

That is all, my friends. :)


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